Roll my die, Change this life

All I can do is be vague. It's Friday night again. I'm at home, listening to the National on my ratty second-hand headphones. Taking photobooth pictures and wondering if my face will ever show emotion. The facial tic-- my lower lip on the left side, where I pull it down in a little "eep" move-- has finally abated after forty-eight hours. I think it came about from trying to control my expression in meetings, to appear what I hope looks like positive neutral.

Erik's gone to bed and I've used up all the phyllo dough wrapping triangular packets of the roasted pumkin, ricotta, and kale filling I made during that cooking jag Tuesday night (the other dishes I made were lettuce wraps with a PF Changs-copy filling, and stuffed peppers). I also used the chocolate ganache-- left over now that the chocolate cupcakes are all eaten-- as filling for a vanilla-snap cookie crust pie with peanutbutter warmed and drizzled on top. The kitchen is tired of me.

It is often that I wonder how I got here. In the past few days alone, I've had the age-flash no less than three times. This first was thinking about some of the clothes I have, including the first thing I bought in my favorite color green. I don't quite have a handle on which thriftstore I found it in, but it was 1996, and I saw the color and fell in love. I haven't worn it in years, though, nor the army pants I bought some time in high school which still grace the pants shelf. The flash is what came next-- thinking of my glittery things, especially all of the new socks I bought. Will I get looks for wearing sparkly things in another year? It's generally looked down upon to go in for glitter after 30. But why should I even care? I walked out of my closet with those thoughts, my doubts left behind.

The next flash was seeing the birth year of my favorite contestant on a reality tv show: one year before mine. But he seems so old! I can't believe he's only a year and a half older than me. He's such an adult. And mentally my nose wrinkles and I know that's not me at all.

Wednesday night at Oba, ordering wine for Erik and I, the bartender is cute and has a full sleeve on his right arm, and he says to me something like "We can say you're 21, right?" Well yes, honey, I'm pretty sure I'm older than you.

I harp on this theme, I know I do. Call it my age-orexia, my bul-year-mia. Or stop me before I make up these terrible puns, that would be preferable.

What I feel is: there's a fine line between childish and childlike. I am dancing on that line. Some days I'm pretty sure which side I'm on, and other days the fire in my belly will demand a switch of sides. What I've determined is that there are more times to be quiet than there are to expound.

I may well be the most actively social hermit in the Pacific Northwest.